


The Embarrassingly Graceless Dying

by ThisThatAndTheOther



Series: Halloween at Downton [4]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Body Horror, Gaslighting, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kissing, M/M, Spooky Stuff for Halloween, Suicide Attempt, Temporary Character Death, Unreliable Narrator, Vampires, Whump, You know just Thomas Barrow s6 things, chapter 2 has a happy ending, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-11-28 16:30:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20969603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisThatAndTheOther/pseuds/ThisThatAndTheOther
Summary: An anthology of death—Thomas’ to be exact—just in time for Halloween. The strange thing about death is, in Thomas’ case, it never seems to stick.Story/Chapter 1: Plot? No, this. Is. WHUMP.Story/Chapter 2: The Thomas/Richard shushing scene, but different.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the warnings around suicide. If you're looking for a sign, this is it! Please reach out and ask for help. People want to support you! 
> 
> Title taken from Philippe Ariès' Western Attitudes toward Death.
> 
> Me (Crashes my car through the fandom four years after I left it, tumbling concussed out the driver door as pages of depressing Halloween-themed fic spill out, noticing every one else is posting happy romantic stories): my nasty son must suffer

It takes him too long to realize what is happening. This is one of the many mistakes he makes. 

*

When Thomas is fifteen, he hears through a friend that Downton Abbey is looking for a new hall boy. He practices his letters three times before settling on a note that he sends to the butler. Excitement percolates in his stomach when he receives word from Mr. Carson asking for an interview.

On the day of their meeting, Thomas follows quickly after the footman who answers his knock at the servants’ entrance. He watches with wide eyes as lady’s maids and valets pass him, keeping close to the walls lest he gets in someone’s way. He feels small and out of place, even though he pressed his suit and tamed his hair with pomade. 

The footman announces him as Thomas Barrow to the butler and deposits him in front of his desk before leaving. Mr. Carson has an impassive face of rock cliff with two beads of deeply hidden ore for eyes. Thomas is struck by that intense gaze. He puffs up his chest in an attempt to keep himself from shaking under it.

Mr. Carson looks deeply suspicious, but it bleeds from him incrementally as Thomas answers his questions. Thomas can’t help the relieved smile when he realizes it’s over.

“All right, Thomas,” Mr. Carson says, steepling his fingers over his belly. “You’ll begin in two days' time. Then, we’ll see to your teeth.”

“My teeth, sir?” He runs his tongue over the top set before worrying at a back molar. They’re clean. His mum once said he had a brilliant smile but that was long ago when she still cared for him like a son.

“As a servant at Downton, you are a symbol of the Grantham family. His Lordship expects all his servants to represent his household in every regard—even that of a mere hall boy. If you expect to rise any higher than this position, you must see to your teeth.”

Thomas spends the next week cleaning Mr. Carson’s shoes and emptying chamber pots and serving the servants’ tea. By the end of it, he is exhausted and doesn’t have the energy to be scared when Mr. Carson calls him into his office.

Mr. Carson dips a pen into his inkpot and writes on a slip of paper. When he passes it to Thomas, he pinches the edges, careful not to smudge the ink. It shows a date, a time, and an address in Thirsk.

“This is the dentist we spoke of earlier. Do not be late, or I will assume you no longer have a need for this job.”

Thomas nods. “No, sir. I’ll be there, sir.”

“Ms. O’Brien has some business in town. She will accompany you there and back.”

Ms. O’Brien, Thomas learns, is Her Ladyship’s maid. She tends to everything Lady Grantham could ever want in a day, and she knows so much about what goes on upstairs. She also keeps track of whatever happens downstairs.

She’s stern, and doesn’t talk unless she has to, but Thomas catches her watching him when she doesn’t think he’s looking. It’s a confusing look that contorts her face, almost like the one his older sister wore after she found out about him, when his father would scream. If he didn’t know any better, he would say it’s one of pity, but he doesn’t understand what he's done to earn it.

She must know how hard Thomas is working—she rose through the ranks from scullery maid.

She drops him off at the front door of the dentist and informs him she’ll be waiting for him when he’s done. She turns with a billow of her skirts and leaves him without another word. 

What follows is the most excruciating afternoon of Thomas’ life. The dentist yanks teeth, one after another, pausing only to deposit them in a bowl where they clink against the porcelain. Occasionally, he tells Thomas to spit in another bowl. What he expels is frothy and wine-red in colour.

After what feels like hours, the dentist puts his whole body into cramming something back into his mouth. By the end of it, Thomas’ face is blotchy and covered in tears. His mouth is an open wound, everything is swollen and tender.

He tries to wipe his face, but it’s no use; Ms. O’Brien knows. She hands him her handkerchief that smells of lavender.

“Nobody likes a crybaby. You best not show them how much it hurts.” Her faces shutters closed, cast in shadow by a nearby building. “There’ll be more of that when they’re through with you.”

When they return to the abbey, he is allowed the afternoon to recover. Fear stops him from looking in the mirror, and he lies in bed to pass the hours. Later that night, he comes down to sit with the rest of the hall boys. They’re eating their evening meal, long after the family and the other servants have supped.

The other boys slurp from their bowls of root vegetable soup and bite into thick chunks of bread, generously buttered. Thomas stares glumly into his bowl of porridge as he listens to them gorge. He isn’t allowed to eat solid foods for another couple of days according to the dentist. Not that he wants to bite into a piece of turnip just now; his jaw still aches from the procedure.

“Cheer up, Tommy,” Geoffrey says. He is the oldest hall boy at seventeen. His lips gleam with butter. “You still have all your teeth.” He flashes a wide, gap-toothed smile.

Thomas frowns. “The dentist pulled a lot of them.”

“He what?”

“Says I had problem teeth and needed to get rid of them.”

Geoffrey frowns. Perhaps, like Thomas, he didn’t think his teeth had been an issue. Thomas’ teeth were clean and relatively straight—straighter than Geoffrey’s, at least. There was only a minor twist to the bottom row, which he inherited from his mother's side. 

“Thomas open your mouth.”

He pauses, sceptical. The hall boys like to tease him. Usually, he can handle it, but tonight, he’s a bundle of nerves as raw as the ones in his mouth. He knows even the slightest thing will set him off. Even still, when the others jostle his shoulder, he does as Geoffrey says while cradling his jaw.

“They’re all there. And not a single cavity,” Geoffrey says. “Are you sure he didn’t take your baby teeth?”

A blush creeps up his neck as giggles move through the others in waves.

“I’m not a baby,” Thomas hisses.

“Well, old man Thomas, maybe he gave you dentures then.”

Thomas scowls, knowing that’s wrong too. The dentist didn’t say anything about dentures. He didn’t say much at all except that Thomas should stop moving if he knew what was good for him—that he should stop crying because it was distracting.

It takes days before the pain in his mouth dulls and Thomas can eat regular meals. By then, the throb of his gums is no longer a distraction and he can concentrate entirely on the new feel of his teeth. The bite feels clumsy. A swipe of his tongue finds peaks and valleys in different places.

When he pulls back his lip, he notices his bottom row are perfectly straight. He snaps his jaw closed and his teeth meet audibly. They’re solid in his mouth, capable of tearing through tough mutton and chewy bread without pain.

* 

Thomas writhes in his bedclothes, groaning. His stomach is in agony and he doesn’t know if he’s going to vomit or shit himself right there in his bed.

It had started a couple of days ago as a small twinge in his belly. Moving from pressure to pain, it slowly grew worse until it was all he could think of while serving. The night before, he begged off as early as he could, stopping only to vomit in the toilet before curling under his covers.

There he stayed, barely sleeping, until now. It’s early morning and the sounds of the other male staff preparing for the day filter through his door. He should be joining them, but he can’t. He can’t think about sitting up enough to put his feet on the floor. The idea of standing, dressing, and going on with his day causes a scorching line of bile to climb his esophagus.

Thomas moans when the hall boy knocks on his door again and repeats the time. Carson will never believe he has a tummy ache. He’s more likely to think Thomas is fibbing to get out of a day’s work and demote him back down to hall boy. Thomas has only just made second footman; he has to be on his best behaviour if he expects to make first one day.

He shivers, miserable yet unable to do anything to help himself.

Another knock on the door, this time followed by the man himself: “Thomas, I trust you are getting dressed.”

“Y-y-yes, Mr. Carson,” Thomas grits out as he pushes himself up, desperate to escape his punishment now that it has arrived. He screams when he sits up, the pressure on his lower stomach unbearable.

Carson looms over Thomas from where he’s curled up like a woodlouse, panting on his bed and cradling his tender stomach.

“Thomas,” he says, stunned. “You are ill.”

“I’m s’rry, Mr. Carson,” Thomas slurs, as Carson feels his forehead. He tries to tell him that his hand feels quite nice against his burning skin, but he can’t seem to put the words in the right order. 

Carson’s lips move quickly, but Thomas can’t hear what he says over the ringing in his ears. Shadows creep in like smoke from the corners of the room, making it hard to see, until black is all there is.

When Thomas wakes up, Mrs. Hughes is dabbing his forehead with a damp cloth.

“Oh, good. You gave us quite a scare,” she says before talking over her shoulder. “Thomas is awake.”

She guides his hands around a glass of water when he chokes on his words. The water is gloriously cold and clean in his mouth. He has never tasted something as pure.

“What—,” he stops, panting from exhaustion. He looks up through his fringe to see Dr. Clarkson join Mrs. Hughes at the side of his bed.

“Your appendix burst two days ago. It’s lucky that Mr. Carson found you when he did.”

“My appendix?”

“It’s a small, vestigial organ in your intestines, near your hip bone. It doesn’t do anything. Yours became inflamed and ruptured.”

“Oh.”

“Do you feel any pain or discomfort?

“I feel, a—a burning? My skin.” He says, blinking back sleep. His hands ghost over the sheets pulled up over his torso.

“Ah, that would be the stitches. We had to remove your appendix before it poisoned you. I just checked them before you woke; they’re looking well. I expect a full recovery.” To Mrs. Hughes: “He shouldn’t be out of bed except to walk as far as the water closet for a few days. He can go back to his regular duties slowly over the next three weeks.”

“Of course, doctor,” she says.

“No prolonged standing and no heavy lifting until I say.” It’s the last Thomas catches before he slips under again.

* 

Thomas never takes his shirt off when he’s with another lad. There’s no time for it. There’s always the worry they’ll get caught, and you can't run very far if you aren’t wearing your shirt, shoes, and trousers.

Thomas tells himself he is fine with these meagre scraps of intimacy, but he is selfish at night. When it’s dark, he dreams of living in a sea-side cottage where he owns the bed he shares with another man. He plays husband to this man who does the same for him. In these fantasies, this man is always faceless, but he is a comforting presence that fills their home. His hands are warm and kind and strong.

Until then, he is happy to meet another desperate mouth in the darkness—to shove eager hands down another’s pants. He is always surprised by the pleasure that follows, as if his body forgets how electrifying another hand stroking him can feel. 

These liaisons have always been with a peer—another hall boy, another footman, some working-class boy looking for release. As such, they find themselves in narrow corridors, closets, and bunkies that aren’t their own.

But tonight, he beds a duke, and there is a lock on the bedroom door. Thomas falls onto a mattress worth more than twice his annual pay, onto a duvet that feels softer than anything Thomas owns. He luxuriates for a moment at his turn of fortune.

Philip straddles his legs and untucks his dress shirt. Thomas holds Phillip’s hands still when they touch his collar button. Despite his excitement, he is nervous. The duke might kick him out.

“I—I’m afraid you won’t like what you see,” Thomas says, without meeting Phillip’s eyes.

“Come now. I already know you’re wrong.” He begins unbuttoning his shirt slowly. Phillip pauses between each button, giving Thomas opportunities to stop him until he strips him of both dress and undershirt. Phillips draws back in surprise when he sees the long, white line of puckered skin running from the top of Thomas' sternum to his pelvis. It healed well considering the thick, black stitches Dr. Clarkson cut loose all those years ago. But there’s still no mistaking it for what it is now: a scar cleaving his torso in two.

Thomas squirms, ashamed. “See? I’m damaged goods.”

“What happened?” Phillip frowns, running a finger down the scar.

“My appendix burst years ago. Had to get it removed.”

“Your appendix is here, darling,” he says as he rubs the taut skin where the scar ends in his pubic hair. “Not in your lungs.” Philip kisses his chest. “Not your spleen.” Kisses below his ribcage. “Not your stomach.” The soft plane of his belly.

Thomas shrugs, blushing at the tender attention—feeling so full of emotion he might burst. His appendix could be in his left foot so long as Phillip keeps calling him pet names.

“Maybe the doctor was lost.”

Phillip smiles before he dips his head and kisses a line down the scar. “Well, I, for one, am thankful for his surgical expedition, as he’s drawn a convenient arrow directing me right to where I want to go.”

*

Thomas isn’t the only one to fall ill at Downton. It’s natural to get sick, and Thomas rarely pays any attention to the others. Deep down, he knows it wouldn’t have mattered even if he did.

*

It takes a while before Thomas hears about the new gardener Llewelyn and how he’s dying. The inside staff don’t fraternize with the outside staff, so the news doesn’t travel as quickly as it would if it was a hall boy or footman.

Thomas usually spends his smoke break watching Llewelyn work the soil, so he notices his absence on the grounds right away. 

Thomas thinks he may be the first to realize there’s something wrong, although he keeps this to himself. It’s unusual for Thomas, a footman, to know anything about what’s happening in the life of a gardener. It wouldn’t do for him to start asking questions now. 

Keeping silent is no special hardship. Thomas managed to smother every previous question that came into his head while he watched the gardener work. Does he smell like the earth or are his nails clean or does he like working with his hands? Thomas imagines the answers are yes to all but the question about his nails. If they were friends, it would be something they would argue about. Llewelyn would roll his eyes but wash them carefully before touching Thomas.

Without Llewelyn, there’s nothing to distract Thomas from the grey autumn weather for nearly a full week.

Once the news reaches the kitchens, word gets out with each baked roll and biscuit served. The servants hold their breath. There’s some unspoken assumption that this is the moment when he shall either get well, or the earl will have to hire a new gardener.

His Lordship rings the doctor. Thomas learns Llewelyn caught his palm on some wire while he was working, and it split open his skin. Thinking nothing of it, he covered it with a torn piece of cloth and kept working. But the cut was infected, and it was slowly poisoning him.

The news weighs heavy over the table at every mealtime. It's suffocating. Thomas feels something thick in his throat that makes it hard to eat with the others. To spare himself the thought of the man’s death, Thomas attempts to set up a wager.

“Alright, then. He’s young and strong. A farthing says he’ll pull through and be pruning trees by the end of the week.”

The others freeze, shock written on their faces.

Bates sighs. “Betting on a man’s life. Have you no shame, Thomas?”

Thomas sneers. Bates, and the others, are clearly missing the point. He doesn't want Llewelyn to die. He just wants them to stop moping about a man they hardly know.

Thomas looks to Ms. O’Brien for support. It’s his turn to be surprised when Ms. O’Brien pinches the cigarette she just lit and stands from her seat, readying herself to leave the servants hall.

“He’s nothing like you.” Her voice is sharp. “That’s a fool’s bet, Thomas.”

Silence follows her exit, as the others watch in shock for her turn against Thomas. Like Thomas, they are used to Ms. O'Brien supporting him and he the same of her.

Heat climbs up his collar to his ears. He is distinctly aware of the space he takes up in his seat in relation to the others around him. They’re staring.

Ms. O'Brien knows of him but has never been nasty about it. She's always been kind, letting him speak his mind while the others would have him silent. 

Thomas frowns. He wasn’t so bold to say he thought Llewelyn cut a handsome figure. It isn’t anyone's business even if he did. The others go back to eating their meal, awkward under the silence hanging over the table, but Thomas has lost his appetite.

No one takes him on his bet, so he keep his farthing when Llewelyn dies two days later. 

*

When Mrs. Patmore goes to London for her eye surgery, Thomas swears she comes back with more green in her irises. He almost comments on it before he realizes how strangely the question would reflect on him, a young man noticing the colour of an older woman’s eyes. He closes his mouth and steals a shortbread instead. The treatment must have cured whatever clouded her vision, he decides, as her eagle eyes catch him chewing. Thomas escapes the swing of her wooden spoon and runs up the stairs.

*

Thomas is on his way to see William. Contrary to what the others may think, Thomas has a heart. He may not like William very much, but he never wanted him dead. Yet here is, dying, and for nothing as the bloody war turns through men just like them.

It could have very well been Thomas lying in his death bed, had he been slower with his mask. Although that particular bed is suspect. Thomas doubts Carson would allow it, even if by some miracle the Crawleys beckoned him back to die at Downton. He likely would have perished alone in hospital. The responsibility of delivering the news to an indifferent staff would have fallen to Ms. O’Brien, weeks late.

Thomas seeks William out to express a regret that isn’t for William but for every man he had seen on the other side. It’s erosive, wearing away everything. Not even their rivalry can withstand it. Thomas is tired, and it shows in the set of his shoulders, the weight of his eyes.

“Absolutely not!” At the shout, Thomas stops just outside William’s bedroom. “I won’t allow it!”

It’s William’s father, sounding cross. Thomas once thought William’s father must be a loser for his son to be the way he is, yet Mr. Mason, a lowly farmer, has the nerve to yell upstairs.

“Mr. Mason, I assure you, it’s a perfectly safe procedure,” Dr. Clarkson responds, his voice almost a whisper in comparison. “William would feel nothing during it, and, with time, only have minimal scarring to show— .”

“No! You won’t change my mind. The others may have no choice, but I do. I own my land. I have a vote. I won’t let you do it.”

“So you wish to refuse the Granthams’ generosity?”

Silence follows. Thomas supposes Mr. Mason must make some gesture, for Dr. Clarkson says:

“I’ll inform the family of your wishes, but they’ll—.” Murmuring too soft to hear interrupts him.

“What is it, William?” Mr. Mason asks.

Thomas presses his ear to the door. Even then, he can’t catch what William says, but he can hear the sounds of someone moving on the other side of the door. At the sound of the doorknob turning, Thomas leaps back, attempting to look like he wasn’t listening in on the conversation.

Judging by the look on Dr. Clarkson’s face, he fails.

“Sneaking near closed doors is beneath a corporal, Thomas. I suggest you go back to the hospital if you have time on your hands—you’ll do more good there than lurking in hallways.”

“Yes, Captain.”

He allows Clarkson several seconds head start before he moves from the door. He’ll speak with William another time.

*

Of course, no one has worse luck than Thomas. This thought comes to him as he makes chase after Isis, under Carson’s orders to find the dog and bring her back to the abbey. She had slipped her lead while on a walk with Lord Grantham and, with the enthusiasm of an untrained puppy, shot off into the forest.

Nearly every able-bodied male staff member joins Thomas excepting, of course, Carson himself. He remains at the abbey in case Isis circles back. There are enough of them that they can fan out and cover a decent amount of ground. 

Thomas ducks under a low-hanging branch to delve deeper into the woods. Somewhere to the west, he can hear, but not see, one of the hall boys call after Isis. Thomas stops, straining to hear the sound of the dog push through the thicket surrounding him. Nothing.

No, not nothing; the woods are full of sounds—birds tweeting, the wind rushing loud enough to sound like water in the trees above—but it’s not the noise of an excited Lab.

Pushing deeper into the woods, Thomas shivers. He feels small here, away from the others, but he isn’t afraid. Thomas walks safely on hallowed ground. In place of stone vaulting are the elm boughs arching overhead, its keystones vibrant green leaves that let the light shine through like stained glass. His eyes draw up to watch them sway. He has to shield his eyes.

Thomas moves forward, watching the branches with no sight for the ground before him. At his next step, cold mud rushes up, kissing his trousers, and fills his shoes. He staggers, sinking about three inches into the ground. 

“Buggering fuck,” he shouts, knowing no one is around him to hear him curse. These are his only good shoes. There’s no time to clean them and have them dry for dinner, and none of his other pairs are appropriate for serving. 

He tries to move, but a powerful suction unbalances him. He grabs out for the nearest tree trunk and pulls, promptly falling into a pile of leaves with a terrible squelching sound when his foot comes loose. He sits up and groans. He can see just how much mud filled his shoe by the muck coating his bare sock—his shoe is still stuck in the mud.

A snort makes him look up. Isis stands a few yards away, tongue lolling out of her mouth. Like Thomas, she’s covered in dirt. Her eyes gleam. She thinks Thomas rolling around in the dirt is all part of the game.

“Isis!” Thomas calls, softening the pitch of his voice. “Who’s a good dog? Why don’t you come here, girl? Come here!” He pats his thighs.

Her tail wags furiously behind her. She barks once before darting under a fern. It’s a dare to give chase, as she disappears once again.

“No, no, no!”

Thomas pushes to his feet and takes five steps before a splintering crack explodes like thunder overhead. In a blink, he’s on the ground and for a moment, he’s confused. He blinks away stars, focusing on the odd way his ears ring. His heart knocks insistently against his chest.

He tries to push himself up to his hands and knees, but lightning strikes his ankle and the shockwaves run electric up his leg. Crying out, he grabs his left leg and looks to see what he’s done.

“Oh.”

The metal mouth of a trap bites into his calf. The points of its sharp teeth press through his trousers and deep into his leg. Agony flows up his leg with the crushing force of the tides before ebbing back down to his ankle—the sensation taking milliseconds before repeating in time with his fluttering heart. He grabs his calf tightly, as if to squeeze the pain out.

A gasp rips from his chest when he attempts to rotate his foot. He's stuck. And no one knows it.

The knowledge that he has no one to rely on but himself pushes him through the pain. He sits up. Grabbing either side of the trap, he pulls with all his strength. A keening noise grinds at his throat as he tries to pry it apart. The trap doesn’t budge, no matter how many times he tries to leverage the teeth off his leg.

When he finally gives up, his grip leaves behind a purple line of pressure on his dirty palms. The backs of his hands are covered in blood. The sight of it makes his stomach drop. This is bad.

“H-help!” It comes out as a croak. “Help!”

He raises shaking hands to his mouth, and, through the taste of metal, he whistles. It slices shrilly through the quiet of the woods and disturbs a flock of starlings overhead. He can only hope it’s loud enough to carry to the nearest man. 

All he can hear are his shaking breaths. He is alone, and no one is coming. He’ll die out here.

No, something deep within him says. He scrabbles against a tree trunk. The rough bark scrapes his palms as he rises to his right leg. His left foot is heavy, raw nerves screaming, as he drags it through the brush. Gingerly, he puts some weight on it, and the world goes dark.

When he comes to, the canopy makes a latticework of leaves above him. The cloying smell of the rotting underbrush fills his nose. Dead, fallen leaves and dirt surround him. If he doesn’t die here, he thinks, he will die at Carson’s hand once he sees the mess Thomas made of his livery.

He yelps when something thumps against his legs. Blinking away black spots from his vision, he braces on his elbows to see Isis draped over his knees. She’s a damp, heavy weight that blankets him in a welcome heat. His teeth chatter. She worms her head under his shaking hand and whines.

That’s how the others find them. The relief flows through him like a sedative, instantly turning his limbs to jelly. Thomas can barely keep his eyes open when they speak to him. He experiences the way back to the abbey in glimpses, aware only when the pain rings loud enough to awaken him—his body is a tuning fork struck against a hard surface.

Time stutters in and out like this: He’s in the woods. Then the clearing. Carson is shouting. Clarkson’s worried face hovers over him. He’s inside, maybe the hospital—the smell makes him think of Edward, of Nurse Crawley, and his eyes fill. There are voices, but the words blur together except for one that makes him quake: amputation. Thomas wrestles with arms one second and wakes up alone the next. Someone pets his hair. He swallows a mouthful of water. A woman sings like his mother.

He opens sticky eyes. He is in his room. It takes him a moment of blinking up at the ceiling to remember.

He whips the bedcovers off and wilts with relief. His foot is still there, along with the rest of the leg. A mountain of bandages triples its size—but it's there. He collapses on his bed, grateful for the pain that throbs fierce and hot underneath the dressings. 

His stomach flips when Lord Grantham blusters through his door hours later, followed closely by Carson. Thomas tries to sit up but does little more than wriggle in his sheets like a worm plucked from its home in the earth.

“Thomas,” Lord Grantham says, lips pursed tightly as he tries hard not to emote too much, “Please, stay. How are you shaping up?”

“Oh, fine, m’lord,” Thomas slurs. It comes to his attention he’s quite heavily drugged. Carson clears his throat pointedly, prompting Thomas to say: “Thank you for asking.”

“It’s a ghastly practice, those traps. I was told they had all been removed, but evidently that was incorrect.” Lord Grantham breathes deeply. “It could have very well been Isis in that trap, so I must thank you: for finding her and laying your life on the line.”

Thomas blinks sluggishly.

“I’ve spoken to Dr. Clarkson. You’ll take as long as you need to recover with no change to your—,” he pauses, as if the next word is dirty, “wages, of course, on account of your bravery. Well. I’ll leave you to rest. Thank you again, Thomas.”

Medicine that dulls Thomas’ thoughts and wrestles with his tongue leaves him nodding dumbly as his visitors leave. He's only glad it doesn't loosen his tongue and admit that the dog wasn't bloody worth it. 

Thomas spends the next week in bed, served by the others like an invalid. It comes as a surprise to him that he doesn't enjoy the attention. With so much of his life spent in service, being on the other side of it feels strange—even if it is only a small parody of his usual role.

He hates people in his space for the brief time it takes for someone to deliver a tray. But mostly, he hates not being able to move freely. Being bedbound doesn't suit him. Thomas can only read so much to fight against the boredom, so he spends most of his time sleeping to ignore the pain. When it's sharp enough to wake him, he stares at the ceiling and counts the cracks.

When Thomas limps into the servants hall another week later, the others descend on him, pestering him about his injury. Daisy asks if he was scared, alone in the woods, or if he worries he might still lose his foot.

"Well, whatever happens, I know they can't send me off for being lame. Isn't that right, Mr. Bates?" 

They leave him alone after this. 

*

Thomas is awake, but he doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t think he can. They’re so heavy, and he’s warm. It would be effortless to slip back under.

He twitches when something touches his arm. It’s a hand. One grips his right palm and another holds the crook of his elbow. The points of their fingers are warm and soft, yet assertive. They manipulate his arm, twisting it to display the vulnerable underbelly of his forearm.

Groaning, Thomas tries to shift away but finds he cannot. All he can do press his cheek into his pillow. The small movement casts the room in a whirl that threatens to spin him out of orbit.

He is weak. His arms don’t want to do what they’re told, and he can’t feel his fingers. This should alarm him, but it doesn’t.

The hands move to his left arm and rotate his elbow in the same way as the first. He is laid bare, he realizes, and in a rush, he remembers. The hands have just exposed his greatest sin to the air. Thomas whines. It’s a miserable noise that barely escapes with an exhalation of air.

A hand presses to his forehead, a brand against his skin, while a voice from above shushes him.

“The damage is significant,” another voice says, its tone rich. “The ulnar and radial artery in both wrists are severed. The median nerve of the left wrist is barely hanging on.”

“My, he meant business.” A woman’s voice now. She’s bored, unconcerned. “Can you replace it?”

The man sighs, as if disappointed by his companion’s behaviour, and not the mess of Thomas' wrists. Finally, the hands leave him alone.

“Of course—though it will leave scars.”

Thomas opens his eyes to smears of colours. He is a boy again, looking through the kaleidoscope his father bought him.

“Well, who doesn’t have at least one.”

Fabric cups over his mouth, and his next breath is humid. Then Thomas closes his eyes and knows nothing more. 

The next time he wakes the reality of what’s happened crashes down on him. He’s in his room. Someone found him. Someone saved him. Someone made him live.

He mourns a death stolen from him. They took it from him, the very last thing they could take, and now Thomas has to live with nothing—not even his resolve to end it. He curses their selfishness. All he wants to do is die, but he can't move. So he does the next best thing instead and lays there with his eyes closed, ignoring people as they come and go from his room. 

“I know you’re awake, Thomas.” It’s Dr. Clarkson. “I’m here to check your stitches.”

Thomas sighs, opening sleep-encrusted eyes, and rolls onto his back. Even that small movement takes its toll, and he has to clench his eyes until the room stops swaying. When he opens them again, the doctor settles in a wooden chair next to his bed and removes the dressings covering his arms. Thomas roles his head to look at his wounds, hoping that what he sees will stir something in the gaping hollow of his chest.

It does, but of confusion. Green-blue veins show through the unblemished skin of his wrists. They're perfect, totally unscathed, but his upper arms are a mess. A neat set of stitches circles his right upper forearm, a couple of inches below his elbow. The seam is raw, an unhealthy pink colour, but Clarkson’s thread braids together otherwise creamy skin as though carved from marble. When he manages to turn his head properly, Thomas see his left forearm is the same.

"But—" Thomas says, "These are wrong."

"Wrong?"

“I—I,” He stops. How does he tell Dr. Clarkson that he dragged his razor vertically through his wrists—not left to right near his elbow? Shame should silence him, but he labours on. “These…I didn’t make these. I cut lower.”

Dr. Clarkson levels a cool stare before fiddling with his medicine bag. “You are mistaken.”

“No—”

“Thomas,” he says sharply, “You have just undergone a significant trauma. What you are suffering from are shock and severe blood loss. Your memory may not be reliable. These are your scars, and you’ll bare them forever.”

“You mean until I finally finish the job?”

Dr. Clarkson stands. A beat of silence goes on long enough that Thomas looks up at him through his fringe. His stare unnerves Thomas; he has to look away.

“Yes.” 

When Dr. Clarkson opens the door, Mrs. Baxter sweeps in to coddle Thomas.

After years of being alone, her attention smothers him. 

Hours later Thomas stands, shouldering the wall when the world disappears in a head rush. A ghoul greets him in the mirror, pale with dark craters under his eyes. All he can see is his father, even though he looks older than his father did the last time Thomas saw him. He must be older now, back crooked after years bent over gearheads. The man could be dead, and Thomas feels nothing more than revulsion for bearing a resemblance.

By the time he’s well enough to work, and his place at Downton no longer uncertain, Thomas has time to reflect.

He still wears the glove on his left hand because to go without would invite questions. Questions that Thomas can’t answer.

He is afraid to speak with Dr. Clarkson. He already thinks Thomas is of a nervous and sensitive disposition. Asking another question like_ where did the scars go?_ would surely have him institutionalized. For isn’t it easier to explain the smooth skin of his palm on madness than the alternative—that the twisted knot of scar tissue disappeared that night?

A tiny part of him worries he is going mad. Perhaps his scars are some lingering relic of a nightmare where he lived another lifetime in sleep. Or maybe they're a complete delusion.

He traces where the nexus of scars should be under his glove, retracing the lines that used to circuit his palm. He knows this pattern intimately; it had become a part of him, just like his black hair, blue eyes, and the mole he has on his thigh. He remembers starting each day by washing his face and feeling the pitted skin against his cheeks. He remembers how it ached in cold or damp weather.

There’s no stiffness to it now as he opens and clenches his fist. It’s as if the bullet never met flesh. Good as new. Just like his wrists.

“Is your hand acting up again, Mr. Barrow?” Anna asks, watching him from the other side of the table. The others ask questions like this now. At first, Thomas had bristled at their attention, thinking they were only looking after him in case he tries to off himself again. But he’s become used to it, grateful for it even.

“My hand?” He says, resting his hand on his knee—hiding it.

“Only you’ve said how it bothers you in the winter. We’re meant to get some snow tonight.”

The flood of relief flows icy-hot through his veins. Anna remembers.

“Ah.” He smiles thinly. “Not at all.”

He frowns when a mutinous part of him thinks that she only remembers what he tells her.

“Did I ever show you it, Anna? My hand?”

“Yes, once,” she says. “And a few more times when you forgot your glove, although you didn’t mean to. It looked sore.”

Does he tell her?

He closes his mouth when Mr. Bates comes into the room. 

*

It's better to be crazy and know it than to be crazy and not know it. Thomas decides this that night after speaking with Anna. It becomes a mantra that he repeats for days until he has the nerve to do something about it. It becomes loud enough that it propels him out of his room one half day.

"What are your plans for the afternoon, Thomas?" Mrs. Baxter asks him as he prepares to leave.

"It's Mr. Barrow while you're working," he hears himself says by rote, as if listening to an actor speak in one of the teleplays the family dials into from another room. It is easier to think of himself as a character in a story of intrigue. His path is set; he is following the plot to his happy ending. If he thinks for a moment about what he's doing, he'll turn around. Instead, he focuses on the ground and tries to ignore the churning of his guts. Someone might say hello, but Thomas keeps his head down. He watches his feet as he puts one foot in front of the other. 

Grass turns to pavement turns to hardwood. His feet take him all the way to Dr. Clarkson's office before his head catches up. His hand grasps the handle when he realizes the door is already ajar, voices leaking through the crack. Thomas releases his grip and peers through the slight opening. He can't see anyone.

"What went wrong?" A nurse asks.

"Nothing went wrong; he suffered a fatal myocardial infarction. Nature simply ran its course," Dr. Clarkson says, unconcerned.

"But, can't we just switch it out? Start again?"

"Do you remember nothing from your training? He isn't on the list." 

"Well, it's not like he's any different from the others—"

"He's very different from the others. It doesn't matter how much tinkering we do, without the Crawleys' word, all it will do is bloody our hands." 

"And the rest of him?" 

"Well, we _are_ authorized for procurement. We'll need to prep for the procedure. Here—."

Thomas freezes as footsteps tap against the floor. He breathes a sigh of relief when they move away from him and further into the office. He hears hinges squeal, and a door shuts shortly after. 

Slowly, he pushes against the door in front of him. It swings open to reveal the large, empty office. From where he stands, Thomas can’t hear Dr. Clarkson or his nurse. If they are still in the other room, the closed door separating them dampens whatever noise they make.

Dust motes float in the sunbeams shining through the windows. It creates a sleepy atmosphere at odds with the turmoil inside him. Thomas knows he shouldn’t be here, stepping into the empty office without announcing himself. But it’s better this way. He can figure out what happened to him without facing Dr. Clarkson and his derision.

Thomas tiptoes slowly over to Dr. Clarkson’s desk. A mountain of papers covers its surface. At a glance, they look like reports and academic papers. There's a notepad full of illegible shorthand that Thomas can’t understand. Knowing that it doesn’t matter, without knowing what exactly does, Thomas turns to the filing cabinet in the corner. He will find his answers. He pulls out the top drawer and drags his fingers along the tops of the folders until he finds 'B'. His file _Barrow, Thomas_ rests against the other ‘B’s, much thicker than most. Thomas extracts it gently, careful not to lose anything. 

The first page is a letter notarized and signed by Lord Grantham, approving Thomas of any and all future procedures. 

With a frown, he flips haphazardly a few pages. An anatomized drawing of a skull shows the top and bottom rows of teeth. There’s a note itemizing the bottom row where the teeth crowd in on each other, suggesting full removal. He turns the page. Another anatomized drawing of a skull shows new rows of teeth, perfectly aligned and spaced. A delicate hand records a larger note below. 

08 Aug 1906 — Dr. White completed full dental extraction of 32 teeth, inclusive of wisdom teeth. Replacement set of 28 implanted same day c/o M. Dawson, D.O.D. Mar 1906 No. 95427.

He turns another page. It bears the letterhead of Dr. Clarkson’s medical office. It creates a banner above a linear drawing of a man, arms by his side. A line of ink connects his chest and groin. As if returning a call, Thomas’ skin burns where a scar marks the same line on his torso. Squinting at scribbles too chaotic to read lining the margins, Thomas turns the page.

27 Apr 1910

T.O.D.: 13:02

Cause: Multiple organ failure, sepsis shock

Patient suffered from undiagnosed appendicitis. Resulting perforated appendix led to severe peritonitis and sepsis.

Failure of peritoneal dialysis necessitating full transplant of inner and outer peritoneum, internal organs therein.

C/O F. Williams D.O.D. 29 Apr 1910 No. 273021

Resuscitation successful 29 Apr 1910 19:47

The breath catches in Thomas’ throat, his mouth dry. He doesn’t understand. He knows what those three letters stand for, but it can’t be right. The human body can’t be brought back after that long. Yet he’s standing proof he survived.

The words on the page bleed together as he thinks this through. A solid weight on his chest makes it hard to breath. With numb fingers, he flips to the back of the file. It’s another handwritten entry, in the same script as before. It’s messy, like notes quickly jotted down before the author could forget. It looks fresh but it doesn’t smear when he rubs his thumb against the ink.

14 Oct 1925 — Complete severing of ulnar and radial arteries of both hands. Significant damage to left median nerve. 

Both forearms transplanted, full transfusion

No available donors, chosen from inventory #391 B. Jefferey as per 1818, c. 32, s. 5 

Hypovolemic shock, anaemia, acute mental confusion

He shoves the file on the top of the cabinet and searches through the drawer for the 'D's. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he finds Dawson, Martha—the only Dawson starting with an 'M'. 

At the back of her file, there's a table filled out in the same hand. He finds his name in the very last row.

Date

| 

Tissue

| 

Recipient  
  
---|---|---  
  
17 Mar 1906

| 

Lungs, bronchial tube

| 

S. Pierce # 45682  
  
29 Mar 1906

| 

Liver, pancreas

| 

O. Andersen #29931  
  
08 Aug 1906 

| 

Maxillary and mandibular teeth 

| 

T. Barrow #46319  
  
The folder drops from shaking hands, papers splashing across the floor. He yanks at the next drawer. Chanting _Jefferey, Jefferey, Jefferey, _he finds the folder and tugs it free from the others. There's another table at the back of Jefferey, Bertram's file. His name is the first and only entry. He stops breathing.

Date

| 

Tissue

| 

Recipient  
  
---|---|---  
  
15 Oct 1925

| 

Left and right forearms

| 

T. Barrow #46319  
  
His breath comes back to him in an audible rush. The folder vibrates as tremors rack his hands. His eyes scan the page, unseeing. This is wrong. He shuts his eyes and wills himself the courage to turn the page. With a deep breath, he opens his eyes. His clammy fingers fumble with the paper for a moment, and he curses when they stick together. Flicking back a few, he lands on one that has the Grantham crest stamped at the top.

What he sees leaches all the heat in his body, flooding his veins with ice. It’s a consolation letter, thanking a relative of Bertram Jefferey for his sacrifice—that his act of bravery would go on to save several lives—and that the earldom would forever remember the life the Jefferey family gave. It’s signed by Lord Grantham and witnessed by Dr. Clarkson, as well as a Member of Parliament.

Thomas shakes his head in disbelief. This letter suggests Bertram Jefferey gave up his life to save Thomas, and Lord Grantham approved it. That parliament knew. He stares at the letterhead. This isn’t the first letter of its kind. He thinks of the tracking numbers, the other names in the charts—how everything is in its place. Organization like this operates beyond Dr. Clarkson—beyond even Lord Grantham. Thomas is number 46319 of how many? It could go back years.

The folder slips from his fingers as he backs away from the cabinet until the sharp corner of Dr. Clarkson’s desk jabs him in the thigh. He casts his arms out behind him to keep his balance, hands curling around the table’s edge with fingers that aren’t his own—arms that aren’t his own.

Bringing them before his face, he stares at them. Shame turns his stomach sour. He’s used another man’s hands for months. A stranger, Bertram Jefferey, was murdered for these. And for what? So Thomas could carry on counting inventory and smoking cigarettes?

Thomas blinks back tears. He thinks of the long scar branding his torso. His ankle. His teeth. All these forgotten wounds throb as if fresh. He is an assortment of parts cobbled together from strangers, living on borrowed lives. He wants to reject these unwelcome pieces, the feeling so strong it hits him in a wave of nausea. It’s disgusting. Unnatural.

“I’m supposed to be dead,” Thomas says, disbelieving. It sounds so much like what he said to Mrs. Baxter right after his attempt at suicide. It took him months to convince himself otherwise, but now, he knows it’s the truth. Long before he ever thought of taking his own life, simple biology stole it. He died before ever getting to first footman.

The realization leaves him reeling. His balance is off when he lurches towards the door. He walks quickly, soundlessly, as he leaves the office, grateful that he doesn’t pass anyone as he leaves the hospital. His feet retrace his steps back along the path. Feeling like a passenger in his body, he watches people and buildings pass by. He only stops when he finds himself in the courtyard. 

The sight of abbey repulses him. The ornate façade and strong foundations once felt like home. Now, it looms over him from all sides, feeling like a prison with Lord Grantham as his warden.

He knows what he has to do; he needs to set things right, and this time, it has to be permanent. 

Thomas pushes open the door and walks straight to the cleaning supply closet. He fumbles with his key ring for a moment before he unlocks it. He pushes at the bottles and tins of different cleaners on the shelves, not looking for anything in particular except for those with the most toxic ingredients. Grabbing what he needs, he heads for the door.

“Thomas,” Mrs. Patmore calls after him. “What have you got there?”

Hunching over his armful to hide it from view, he turns around and walks out the door again. Once he leaves the courtyard, he picks up his pace—walking as fast as he can without outright running—and heads for the woods. His breath hitches in his throat by the time he reaches the edge of the forest. With a deep breath, he crosses the threshold and heads through the brush.

After what feels like forever marching over fallen trees and underbrush—his breath steaming slightly as he pants in exertion—he stops: here, far away from the abbey, he will die. He places each tin in front of him, twisting them slightly in the dirt to make sure they stay upright. He sits cross legged before them and appraises his haul.

Years ago, he would have died somewhere near here searching for Isis. At the time, he feared no one would find him. Now, he hopes for it. 

With the edge of his keyring, he levers each lid open. He erupts into coughs as the caustic smell of cleaner hits the back of his throat. Breathing over his shoulder, he takes one last deep breath of forest air before turning back and grabbing the first tin. He holds it hard enough to dent the metal. He feels his pulse in each fingertip.

Fear of pain is what stops him. Just as the razor hovered over his wrists while he steeled his nerves before committing to the stroke, he hesitates with the tin. He knows what follows will be agonizing. But a small amount of pain is fair payment for release. Closing his eyes, he surrenders.

He tilts it back abruptly and swallows as much of the crystals as possible. The bitter taste coats his tongue and burns his throat as he swallows mouthful after mouthful. Finally, he has to breathe. The need comes gasping, and a plume of powder explodes into the air as he coughs.

He retches over his lap, globs of saliva dropping from his lips to the space between his legs. The crystals are razor sharp at his throat, yet still, he swallows until the tin is empty. His stomach burns with the cleaner, roiling when he reaches for the next one. Eyes streaming, he can't read their labels.

He must have already burnt his tongue, for it’s easier with the second one. It doesn’t taste as ghastly, but he still has to stop to fight against heaves as he makes his way through the contents. His hands are shaking by the time he tastes the third. By the fourth and final tin, he feels frail. The earth below him churns like an angry sea intent on tossing him overboard, and the trees before him swirl together.

Thomas tips onto his side. The dirt is wet against his face, and it smells of mould. He shivers, feeling a cold sweat prick at this neck, armpits, and groin; his skin is ice compared to the fire crackling inside his belly. Thomas wonders where Isis went—she is supposed to keep him warm.

Crying out, he holds his stomach. The stabbing pain brings him back to being a second footman, when his appendix burst, worried of what Carson would say. It consumes him; he is nothing but the intense agony in his stomach and the scorching line of his esophagus—the chemical taste in his mouth.

He knows that it will be over soon. And so he waits, and waits, and waits, squeezing his eyes shut as the world spins off-kilter around him.

Something hits hard against his shoulder, and Thomas unfurls on his back. He sobs, the pain is worse now that he is stretched out. He blinks. Lord Grantham and Lady Mary stand over him, staring down at him as they would a stain on the carpet. Disappointed, but sure that someone else would fix it. They look incongruous with the canopy of trees above them.

“Really, Thomas. Is this how you choose to behave after everything we’ve done?” Mary asks.

Thomas laughs. A mist of blood sprays across his face with it. By the overwhelming taste of pennies in his mouth, he knows his grin must be red. A terrible pain stabs at his stomach, melting his smile into a grimace. Every agonizing moment is worth this—knowing he’s finally won.

Mary looks away. “Andy, call Dr. Clarkson over this way.”

*

Thomas wakes. 

The core of him burns tenderly. He doesn’t dare open his eyes, but he can feel a bed below him and soft sheets over his hands. He can smell the damp of the attics.

"You burnt the better part of your upper digestive system,” Dr. Clarkson says, disappointment tinging his words. “Do you know how hard it is to get a tongue attached to an esophagus and stomach?"

Thomas presses his face into his pillow and cries. 

* 

Years later, he meets a man named Richard who loves him. When they can, they meet and rent a room from a sympathetic publican. It's here that Thomas learns Richard wants to be as close to him as possible, as many times as possible.

"Where did you get those scars," asks Richard, holding their hands together. He holds them aloft over the bed where they lay.

Thomas thinks of a dead man he's never met. "It doesn't matter," he says as Richard presses his mouth against the line circling his forearms.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Wipes sweat from brow* Managed to get one more off before Halloween. Phew. This is my horror-adjacent reboot of Thomas' big gay night out. Don't worry—Thomas gets a happy ending. 
> 
> Also, sorry, things are slightly off from the actual scenes in the movie. Partly, so that I can have my way with the plot. But partly because I've seen this movie once and a bitch can't be bothered to hunt down these scenes.

Thomas is a hot kettle rattling on the range, spitting boiling water at the spout. He grinds his teeth, pursing his lips, to tamp down black feelings of resentment. His throat and chest feel tight with the effort.

To be honest, he also feels a little sorry for himself. He doesn’t deserve to be sitting here, in a pub in the middle of an afternoon while the royal and Downton servants alike prepare for the King and Queen’s visit. He deserves to be at the abbey in some semblance of authority.

The family’s doubt in his abilities stings, but the true injustice is the ease with which Carson reclaims his title, role, and esteem of butler. With a snap of Lady Mary’s fingers, he’s reinstated. Just like that.

Thomas has to laugh—if he can call the huff of breath a laugh—because he can’t stomach the alternative.

No matter what Thomas does, they still don’t trust him. The idea they would rather an old man with palsy represent them in front of the King festers. Years of impeccable work forgotten just because Thomas didn’t polish a bit of silver. Silver, Thomas thinks bitterly, the Page of the Backstairs wouldn’t deign himself to use. 

Thomas sighs, all the pent-up steam leaving him in a breath. Slumping, he drags a finger through the condensation collecting on his pint, creating a mindless pattern before wiping it away with his palm. He considers ordering another. Because what else will he do with his time off? He has no pressing need or desire to return to the abbey where the others will either ignore him or pity him. He might as well stay here for another round. At least this way, when he returns much later in the evening, he can pretend he did something productive with his time away. And perhaps by then, a traitorous part of him thinks, the others will be too busy to notice him; he can slip in undetected.

Raising the glass, he signals the barman for another. When he does so, he notices a man staring at him from across the bar. Instinctually, Thomas looks away, as if burnt, to stare unseeing at the space between him and the bar. He narrowly avoids adjusting his tie.

“Ta,” Thomas says as the barkeep places a new pint before him. Suds splash over the rim, but Thomas pays it no mind. He looks surreptitiously at the stranger again. Thomas smiles uncertainly as a heat flushes at his neck.

This stranger shares none of Thomas’ embarrassment for having been found staring. The man is slender and tall. A curl turns up one side of a proud, full mouth adorned by a thick moustache. His lips are pink against pale skin. Above it all is a set of dark, steady eyes. They’re unfathomable from across the bar.

Thomas’ heart knocks against his ribs in greeting. The warmth of his quickly downed pint flows through his veins, and for a moment, the carbonation flutters eagerly in his belly.

The stranger quirks an eyebrow. 

Thomas comes back to himself and realizes he, too, has been staring. He swallows, looking away. But he can’t help himself; something draws him to look back, and he peeks furtively through his lashes and downturned brow.

The spot across the bar is empty. Lifting his head, Thomas searches the area across in earnest and wonders if he didn’t cock something up.

“Mind if I join you?” A low voice sounds next to him. Thomas startles, twisting in his seat. Somehow, his stranger managed to move rapidly without a sound. Up close, he has flawless skin carved from smooth alabaster.

“Ah, yes. I mean, no, not at all.” Thomas cringes and tries again: “Please.” And gestures to the seat next to him. God, he’s pathetic. He can’t even speak in full sentences. No wonder Lady Mary wants rid of him. The minute someone throws him any attention he falls to pieces.

His companion doesn’t seem to mind. He flashes a sharp smile as he clinks his beer against Thomas’ glass.

“To a free afternoon and to new friends.”

“Cheers.”

“And so what brings you to the Fox and Crown in the middle of the afternoon?”

Shame flushes hot at his cheeks, and Thomas curses himself for changing into his least formal suit. He knows what this looks like; a man indulging in his second pint while the sun’s still shining.

“Ah,” his stranger pouts, the movement drawing Thomas’ eyes down. “I mean not to insult you. It’s only my awkward attempt at a conversation.”

His self-deprecation is charming, and Thomas feels his shoulders loosen. There’s an aura about this stranger that puts him at ease—like everything will be all right with the world so long as this stranger is by his side. He leans unconsciously closer.

“Oh, it’s alright. Perhaps I’m a little sensitive today.”

“How so?”

“My employers think I’m unsuited to receive the royal family,” Thomas says, marvelling at this own candid language, but the words roll naturally off his tongue. He backtracks to explain his position at the abbey and King George’s imminent arrival. “They brought the old butler out of retirement and told me to hide my face.”

“They didn’t.” He sounds scandalised. “Not that face.”

Thomas blinks at his boldness, eyes darting to the barkeep, but it makes him smile. “Well. Not exactly,” he admits. “I told them to shove it—Oh god.” The gravity of his behaviour settles heavily on his shoulders. “And I slammed the door on His Lordship.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. Will he even have a job when he goes back?

A warm hand squeezes his forearm and startles him out of his defeatist spiral. “It can’t be as bad as all that.”

“That’s kind of you to say…”

“Chris. Chris Webster.” He extends a hand. When they shake, Chris’ cool fingers brush against the pulse point of Thomas’ wrist. It makes him shiver.

“Thomas Barrow.”

“Well, Thomas, the least I can do is get you another drink to soothe the day you’ve had.”

Thomas looks down, astonished to find his pint empty, and soon a new one joins the empty glass he doesn’t remember drinking. Time seems to unfold effortlessly around Chris. Thomas imagines a whole evening could transpire with him and feel like only a few moments.

Thomas touches Chris’ elbow when he thanks him. And because he’s a little drunk, and quite possibly out of a job, his hand lingers there a moment longer than it ought.

Thomas chuckles nervously and is about to open his mouth to apologise when he notices Chris is looking at him. It’s an appraising look. Thomas freezes under it, eyes widening under the weight of his stare.

He’s done something wrong. This isn’t what he thought it is, and Chris is going to throw a punch. Thomas steels himself for a blow.

“Would you like to get out of here?” Chris asks.

“Yes,” Thomas says, unthinking in relief. “I mean, where?”

“There’s a place called Turton’s I think you’d like. It has a bit more privacy.”

With an older man near the fire reading a newspaper, and a couple of labourers busy eating a late lunch, the pub is far from empty. Thomas catches his meaning.

Chris stands up.

“What, now?” Thomas hurries to gulp back the rest of his pint and fumbles with his jacket. He stops short, remembering what brought him to the pub in the first place: the royal valet.

“If someone comes looking for Barrow, could you tell him where I’ve gone?”

The barkeep is unimpressed. “And where’s that?”

“Turton’s.” Thomas says as Chris says loudly over him: “Just another bar.”

It’s confusing and Thomas feels he ought to clarify it for the barkeep—and therefore Richard—but Chris pulls insistently at his arm.

It’s evening when they push through the doors of the pub. Silence fills the air as they walk through the city, Chris leading Thomas around corners this way and that. It’s companionable, but Thomas still feels nervous. He's relieved when they arrive at a large, unadorned green door, which Chris raps on succinctly. It opens sooner than Thomas expects, considering its rundown look, to reveal a small man in an empty foyer. He greets them warmly enough, but his eyes linger hungrily on Thomas.

As they move through the entrance, a man holding a drink looks at Thomas from head to toe. Two men turn their heads towards them from where they were whispering in each other’s ears.

“Fresh blood,” says a young man, barely more than a boy, from the lap of a moustachioed man. They laugh, watching as Chris leads Thomas deeper into the bar. A jazz band plays in the corner in front of a dance floor. The sight of men swaying together stops him.

For years, Thomas had thought Downton as an island in the middle of a vast ocean. Occasionally, men like him would wash ashore, but never for long before they cast out again, trying their luck against the waves, and never for anything real. Just desperate ruttings shared by those starved for affection, many of them nobles whose wives were waiting for them to return home.

Men of his kind rarely visited, so he thought they were rare. It was incredibly lonely, waiting for someone like him.

But as he looks out into a bar full of men laughing, dancing, and kissing—men being intimate and happy and free—he realizes his mistake. He may be an island at Downton, but it’s not an endless ocean surrounding him. Perhaps just a small mote separates him from others.

“Look at you grin,” Chris whispers into his ear. “Is this the first time you’ve been to a place like this?”

“What is a place like this?” Thomas wonders allowed. He can’t believe it. He can barely even dream it. The idea of having a safe place just to be was buried so deep that he never dared to hope it would come true. Yet, here he is, living his private fantasy.

Chris laughs as Thomas stumbles over his feet in his haste to take it all in.

“Take off your coat. Stay a while and dance with me.”

Thomas simply nods and does what he’s told. Chris teaches Thomas the basics of the Turkey Trot and they navigate the dance floor. Compared to the Charleston and Peabody, two of the more popular dances on the floor, their trot is more subdued. But, as an excuse to press against Chris’ strong chest when they aren’t jumping apart, Thomas has no complaints. At times, he has to hide his face in Chris’ shoulder, feeling silly and exposed but in such a delightful way that he falls into uncontrollable laughter.

They’re both sweating by the time the band breaks.

“Shall we take a rest?” Chris suggests, already pulling Thomas off the dance floor and into a quieter, dimmer corner. Chris’ thigh is hot and solid against Thomas’ own when they sit on a loveseat made for two people much smaller than them.

“Are you having fun?”

“Yes, this is—” Thomas stops, not sure how to put it into words. He shakes his head.

“I was the same way my first time. I must say part of the fun of coming back is seeing people like you. Loneliness shackles men like us. Bringing them to Turton’s is like slotting a key into the lock. The irons are gone, so we can be free. At least for a little while.”

There’s barely any space between them. Chris leans forward.

“May I kiss you now?”

Thomas nods and their lips press together in a chaste kiss. And if this is all there is, Thomas would go home tonight happy, but they shift. Things slot into place when Chris licks open his lips, and the kiss deepens enough they can taste each other.

They break apart, breathless. Thomas runs his hands up Chris’ arms—they’re compact and muscular without being brawny—before looping into place at his neck. Staring into his eyes, Thomas finds the colour just as dark and unknowable as when they first stared at each other across a smoky pub. How long ago that feels.

They move with less coordination than on the dance floor as Chris flattens Thomas against the seat and presses in close.

Thomas lays his hand flat against his Chris’ shoulder, not quite pushing him off but warning him. “Wait, Chris. The others…” He trails off, looking out into the bar.

Chris understands him, smiles, and kisses the side of his mouth. “No one is paying attention. They’re too busy having their own fun.”

Thomas looks closer at the shadows. Slowly, shapes coalesce in the darkness to reveal moving bodies in similar positions as them. Chris recaptures his lips while Thomas stares. Someone groans lowly in the dark. It pricks loudly at Thomas’ ears, even though it’s quiet. If he wasn’t straining for it, it would blend in with the other sounds of the club.

Understanding arrives in a thrill down his spine.

His eyes slip closed when Chris grinds down against him, a substantial weight against his chest, and it brings him back, away from the others. Whining, Thomas rocks his hips to meet Chris’ thigh. When he opens his eyes again, Chris smiles, moves a strand of hair off Thomas’ forehead, and dips in closer to bite his bottom lip.

Another kiss, this time even deeper. They kiss until Thomas is panting, heart thundering inside his chest and pulse rushing in his ears.

He gasps when Chris presses him into the seat cushion. His lips part in an errant shape that Chris licks into before moving to kiss along his jaw. Thomas grasps the back of Chris’ shirt, shivering as Chris nibbles at his earlobe. His breath is soft and loud against his ear, deafening Thomas’ now riotous pulse. Thomas’s hips buck without meaning to when Chris’ tongue swipes at his neck.

Moaning, Thomas tips his head back, and Chris presses his lips against his pulse point. He laps at the spot delicately, taking the moment to taste him.

The pits of Thomas’ cheek burn, knowing that Chris is undoing him in front of an audience, albeit a distracted one. But it’s nothing compared to the heat at his neck. It’s on fire under the attention. It’s one big erogenous zone as all the blood rushes to the spot under Chris’ lips. Thomas feels himself harden as Chris begins to suck at his neck, nipping gently at the sensitive spot near the left side of his jaw.

Thomas hisses, shifting as Chris’ teeth catch sharply against his skin. Chris hums. Another powerful kiss soothes the vulnerable skin there in apology. Thomas’ hands trail down his back and captures Chris’ backside, grabbing and pulling him closer as he rocks his hips up. Chris nips carefully at his neck again. Pain spikes sharper when Chris’ teasing nibbles grow bolder, stronger.

“Oi—” Thomas levers a hand between their chests and pushes. It’s like trying to move rock. “Chris, that hurts—Oh!” Thomas jerks as Chris widens his mouth and bites properly.

Thomas freezes, eyes wide. He’s a rabbit hanging limp from a fox’s jaws, playing dead in hopes to survive. He can’t move. Chris’ legs trap Thomas’ thighs. Their chests press together in a burning line, the cushion unyielding at Thomas’ back. Chris pins his left shoulder and threads his other hand through Thomas’ hair and yanks his head to the right.

Thomas screams as Chris sinks his teeth into Thomas’ neck and chews. Hot blood burst across his neck and chest, scalding him. The pain of it shocks Thomas into movement. He squirms and tries unsuccessfully to buck Chris off. The man exerts an impossible strength.

Thomas’ neck throbs in time with fluttering heartbeat, but it’s weakening. His eyes drift open from their grimace, and he stares into the shadows, looking for someone who might help him. He means to yell but the sound chokes out of him.

He frowns when jazz fills the air; then remembers. There’s a band. It must have started again. Thomas can still hear the wet sounds of Chris sucking and worrying his neck over the ragtime.

The room goes dark, and the haunting music continues to play quieter and quieter until all things stop.

*

Someone’s prodding his shoulder. He groans and moves to escape whoever it is. Whatever they want can wait. He isn’t even butler anymore, which means he can go out late and sleep in even later if it so pleases him. Wait—go out late… The night catches up with him.

Yelling, Thomas throws a fist in the air. He hears shoes scratch against cobblestones as they scramble out of his reach. Thomas grabs frantically at his neck; it’s whole. Tacky and gritty, but there isn’t a giant tear or even a slight imprint of teeth.

Sighing, he takes stock of his surroundings. He’s propped up against a brick wall in a dark alleyway.

“Thomas,” Richard says, crouching next to him. “How do you feel?”

“Richard, I—I’ve had the strangest dream.” He frowns. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the alley behind Turton’s.”

Thomas smiles, dazedly. “Ah, you found me.”

“Too late, I’m afraid.” Richard grimaces. He points at Thomas’ chest. Thomas paws at it, confused. What once was a white shirt is now browning red. The soft fabric is stiff with blood.

“There’s no kind way to say this, Thomas, so I’ll just say it plainly. Your friend was a vampire. He bit you and turned you, and now you’re a vampire also.” 

Thomas glares, waiting for Richard to come out with the truth. When Richard stares back earnestly, Thomas shakes his head.

“Vampires? Really? This is a lot of work for a cruel prank," Thomas says, but it lacks his usual conviction. He’s confused why Richard would do this. Yes, they telephoned the Page of the Backstairs, but that was harmless fun. This prank is confusing in its complexity and brutality. How on earth did get all this blood, and how did he involve Chris?

“I wish I could say it were a trick but, it’s true.”

“Where’s Chris?” Thomas looks around the empty alleyway. “I’d like to speak with him. I bet he won’t stick to your Dracula story.”

Richard shakes his head, looking pained. “Was that your friend? Well, I’m sorry, but Chris is dead.”

Lead settles in Thomas’ stomach. “Don’t joke like that.”

“I’m not joking. Let me explain. I went to the Fox and Crown to meet you, and the barkeep told me you went to Turton’s.” Richard settles beside Thomas on the alley, his long legs running hot next to Thomas’. “I know Turton’s caters to queer types—” He glances at Thomas, “and even queerer types. Supernatural beings like vampires.”

Thomas scoffs.

“Please let me finish. I went in and had someone tell me if they had seen you. They had and directed me to the back. I found Chris attempting to take you away. Where?” Richard shrugs. “I suppose his home or his lair.”

“Honestly, Richard, this is ridiculous.”

“So I engaged him. We fought, and I drove a stake through his heart.” Richard shows him a small branch, sharpened to a point at one end. Thomas eyes the middle, where one would grip it, where a small section of the wood is worn down in the rough size of a fist.

Thomas is shocked into silence. He waits again for Richard to start laughing, to admit it was all a big joke. When he doesn’t, Thomas shifts uncomfortably. He’s sitting beside a mad man. Alone, in a dark alleyway, without anyone knowing where he is. 

“You don’t believe me.” Richard waits. “Then how do you explain the blood.”

That is peculiar. The last of what Thomas can remember is the claustrophobic feel of Chris caging him in, and the sharp agony at his neck. It doesn’t make sense. Not the fact Chris bit him in the first place, and not the fact that he survived. By all rights, his neck should be a shredded mess. He teases the skin there. When he pulls back his hand, flakes of dried blood coat his fingers. Yet he feels strong and unharmed. 

“I don’t…” Thomas says, “I—I must have had too much to drink and—forgotten—now _that_ is much more believable than vampires.”

Richard leans sideways and reaches into his breast pocket. He places a card in Thomas’ hand: “Here.”

It appoints Richard Ellis, MBE as a vampire hunter for His Royal Majesty King George V. Thomas runs his finger over the Great Seal of the Realm. It looks and feels real. But it can’t be.

“And now, for the final proof.”

Thomas watches as Richard sheds his jacket and rolls up the sleeve of his shirt. Richard brandishes a knife and runs it across his forearm with a hiss. A metallic tang perfumes the air as Thomas stares. Saliva fills the hull of his mouth and his cheeks tingle in anticipation. He watches, enraptured, as blood pools dark red from the cut. He follows a bead trailing crimson down Richard’s arm. Licking his lips, he wonders how it would taste.

A hand presses a brand against his chest. Blinking, Thomas realizes his parted mouth is mere inches away from Richard's arm. His hands grip solidly around either side of the cut. When he lets go, he leaves behind red marks on Richard’s skin.

“Thomas, touch your teeth right now.”

Thomas brings a shaking hand to his mouth. He touches something sharp and foreign where his canines used to be. They catch on his lower lip and prick his tongue when he worries at one of the points. His heart is pounding and he is panting.

“Oh. Well.” Thomas picks up the card he dropped, feeling punch-drunk. “I guess you… You have a job to do.”

Richard takes the card back and deposits it back in his breast pocket. He settles back next to Thomas, closer than before.

“No,” Richard says, softly.

He draws two fingers through the blood and raises them carefully to Thomas’ lips. Thomas swallows compulsively and parts his mouth to allow Richard in. The flavour bursts vibrant across Thomas’ tongue and he closes his eyes, moaning. He sucks, hollowing out his cheeks, in an attempt to get savour all of it.

When Richard withdraws his hand, Thomas is gasping. He’s tasted blood before—either by sucking on a paper cut or licking at a split lip—but it always tasted vile, slightly metallic. Now, it's ambrosia. It's the first time noticing the mosaic of flavours that underlies the taste of pennies. Like many firsts—the first time touching himself, the first time being touched—he’s bewildered, gratified, and full of wonder. He wants more. With a shaking breath, he controls himself and stares at Richard in astonishment.

"Part of being one of His Majesty’s vampire hunters is understanding the need for discretion. Not all vampires deserve death. In fact, very many of them assist us.” Richard pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his arm. As he unfurls his shirtsleeve and redresses, he continues: “You’re newly sired and I know you’re virtuous. There’s no reason you can’t join them. Me.”

“You’re a..?”

“A vampire, no. But you and I are more alike than you think. This wasn’t my first time at Turton’s, after all,” he says, bumping Thomas’ shoulder with a smile. He stands and holds a hand out for Thomas. “Come on. Let me get you back to the abbey, and we can discuss what you want to do in the morning.”

Richard shrugs off his jacket and guides Thomas into it. He does the buttons up and drapes his scarf around his neck. Thomas feels precious and small, as though a present wrapped up. Flattening Thomas’ lapels, Richard surveys his work and smiles.

“You don’t have to work with me. Us,” Richard says. “I’ll help you no matter what. We have to stick together, men like us.”

Thomas shakes his head. “I don’t know anybody like us.” 

Richard looks at the mouth of the alley and behind them before pulling Thomas close and kissing him softly. Thomas parts his mouth in surprise, allowing Richard to lick into his mouth before the kiss deepens. Thomas still has his eyes closed when Richard pulls back. When he opens them, Richard is smiling fondly.

Richard pats his chest where he was still holding Thomas' lapels. “That will change soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEAH HIS HEART IS POUNDING POST-VAMPIRE TRANSFORMATION. Vampires need to pump blood or they’d be big bruised bags of blood who can’t get it up!!!! -Signed a concerned and confused horror enthusiast.  
  
Richard and Thomas are now the Buffy and Angel of 1920s—only without all the misogyny, 200-yr-old/17-yr-old dynamic, or lost soul drama.
> 
> Vote below if you want to see a sequel where Thomas learns how to be a good vampire and navigate his new relationship with Richard.
> 
> Also if you like vampires, check out part one of Halloween at Downton


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